


Divine Light

by GreyLiliy



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4074481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyLiliy/pseuds/GreyLiliy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chosen One has found Rhea has gone missing dark underground. He will just have to take it upon himself to go save her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Note: First three chapters were written in January 2014_
> 
> (I really like Rhea, okay!?)
> 
> The following is a loose adaption of the events in game (Dark Souls) concerning Rhea of Thorolund’s story arc, rewritten to include some romance and a tad less blank main-character Chosen Undead. 
> 
> Unsure if this will be continued, but I like what I've got so I might as well share.

The Chosen Undead trudged up the overgrown stone stairs, distracted but steady on the familiar path to the closest thing he could call home. He held a straight sword in his hands, admiring the shining finish, the slight glow of it capturing all of his attention. The Chosen had snatched the weapon out from the nose of a sleeping Undead Dragon while in the Valley.

It was his only prize, unfortunately.

For the creature awoke after it was in his grasp, and for once, he was too tired to bother fighting the beast. Instead, The Chosen decided to admire the prize he had taken, rather than mourn what he missed.

It had a good grip, and was a good length for a simple straight sword. Holding it, he felt something extra humming beneath the metal: A Divine Item. Stranger still, it was of a make that seemed familiar. Where had he seen it?

Oscar.

The name came to him in a flash, and he hummed turning over the hilt. That was where he’d seen this before: Oscar, the Undead who enabled his escape from the Asylum. He had a straight sword exactly like this one hanging from his belt.

 _It must be a blade of Astora then_ , The Chosen decided. Perhaps he’d make some use of it then, rather than stashing it away in his bottomless box. He had taken the name “The Chosen Undead” in honor of the parted soldier, it wouldn’t hurt to carry on the name of his homeland as well.

But first, The Chosen would pay a quick respect to the Fire Keeper that kept dear Firelink Shrine alit, and take a rest at the Bon Fire. Plan in mind, he trudged on around the corner, the Fire Keeper’s underground cage in sight.

“You there! The pretty Undead with the lovely new sword,” Lautrec called from his seat, forever observing the Fire Keeper. The taint of his voice sent The Chosen’s spine to crawling, and he yet again wondered if freeing the man from the Chapel had been wise. Lautrec leaned forward, tapping the ground with two fingers. “Been waiting for you to show up again.”

“Oh?” The Chosen asked. “And why might that be?”

“Had a bit of a tip for you,” Lautrec said, chuckling. He rubbed his two fingers together, and shrugged his shoulders stretching the molded golden arms hugging across his torso. “Assuming you’re willing to pay for it.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m afraid I’m a bit short on souls myself at the moment,” The Chosen said. He waved from the side of his head and sheathed the sword at his side with a firm and steady click in the hilt. “Perhaps next time.”

“That’s a shame,” Lautrec said, calling out after The Chosen as he readied to head up the stairs to the bonfire. The mockery in his voice dripped of self-satisfaction: Someone who knew he had something good. “It concerned that little lady with the guards you seemed to fancy.”

“Rhea?” The Chosen said, before he could help it. He smacked a hand over his mouth, cursing the weakness. He dragged his fingers down slowly, touching the tips of chapped lips.

‘Fancy’ wasn’t perhaps the right word, but she did interest him. Even when yelling at him to leave her be, Rhea of Thorolund was different from so many of the others he met her in Lordran. She had a kindness there, hidden under her dedication and status. Rhea was a light in The Chosen’s dark world, and he desperately wanted to know it more intimately.

But she and the others had headed for the Catacombs in search of the Rite of Kindling…

“Has she come back?” The Chosen asked, voice hopeful.

Laurtrec held out his hand, shifting forward the motion as smooth as a slithering snake. He motioned his fingers toward himself, and pressed his palm up in waiting.

The Chosen crossed the grass, and scrounged together enough souls to pay Lautrec’s price. He shouldn’t give the man the money. Who knew if the information would be of ay use? But he was curious.

Rhea.

The Chosen dropped his hard gathered souls in the waiting palm, and crossed his arms. “Well?”

“Funny thing, you know that she and three others went down, deep down, to the Catacombs, yes?” Lautrec asked, knowing full well that The Chosen knew. He stowed the paid souls away for safe keeping, carefully stroking the arm-shaped decorations of his armor in a caress. “Well, I can tell you this: Four went down, but only one came back up!”

“He came back running like the Gravelord Nito himself was on his tail. His talismans and faith didn’t seem to do him much good, did they?

"Though, that’s not all that surprising. A man who sees dear Oswald the Pardoner as much as I do, likely doesn’t have the amount of faith he claims to, if you catch my drift,” Lautrec laughed, loud and hearty–a brass cackle that shook and clung his armor together. He stood from his seat, and slapped The Chosen on the shoulder. He leaned in close, whispering into the side of The Chosen’s helmet. “That last tidbit was a freebie, for being such a good customer. So if you’d like to know more about pretty little Rhea of Thorolund, I suggest you ask the fleeing coward himself since your pockets are so light today.”

“Much obliged,” The Chosen said, his voice hoarse. He tightened his grip on the handle of his sword, the leather of his clothes twisting and whining as it stretched.

The bonfire could wait.


	2. Chapter 2

The Chosen found Petrus of Thorolund in his usual place near the old shaft lift to the church. The paunchy man looked to be grieving, hunched over and shaking his head wailing as loudly as he could. His body shook with the sobs, and it ruffled his knight robes. But there was something amiss about it all.

The Chosen approached, fearing for the worse. “Petrus?”

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, the shake in his voice leaving for a moment. 

“Is it miracles you’re after?” Petrus asked, patting the side of his pouch where the scrolls were hidden. The tremble to his voice returned, a watery sound–unnatural and wavering. “If not, leave me be. For I have been separated from my dear lady. Oh, wherever could she have gone?”

There was no question: The tone was wrong. Faked. The Chosen shook his head slowly, and wet his lips. “That doesn’t seem to match up with what I heard from Lautrec. He said you fled the Catacombs without her.”

“So you talked to the Carim Knight, did you?” Petrus asked, the even and smug tone returning to his voice. His entire demeanor morphed into something far too confident and self-satisfied. The look on his face twisted into something ugly to match the scathing tone of his voice, “Then what’s to hide? The pureblood mistress slipped down a hole after her bumbling fools Vince and Nico fell down a hole. I left the lot of them to their own devices. Sticking with them would bring nothing but a Hollowing and Death.”

“So she’s still down there?” The Chosen asked, holding in every inch of his temper to keep his words even through gritted teeth. How dare someone who vowed to protect her say such things? The Chosen pointed back toward the graveyard. “She’s down there alone in a hole with Vince and Nico?”

“Yes, sobbing her little eyes out,” Petrus laughed, the fat in his belly rolling. He smacked his belt and licked his lips. “I bet if you went down there, you’d find her all alone now. Surely the other two have gone hollow by this point.

"In fact,” Petrus paused. His grin turned lewd, eyes alight with something dark, and he leaned over into The Chosen’s face. He spoke with the same knowledge of Lautrec concerning The Chosen’s not so hidden feelings. “You fancied her, didn’t you? I saw the way you looked at her. The way you hung around and pestered even when you wreren’t wanted.

“I suppose this is a spot of luck for you! With that worthless woman alone and helpless, you really could do with her as you please. Down there in the dark, she could be writhing on the floor as you—”

The Chosen wasn’t sure when he had shoved the Sword of Astora through Petrus’ belly, but it certainly wasn’t an action that he would come to regret any time soon. Fire burned in his eyes as he breathed heavily, his hand shaking and the metal twisting in Petrus’ flesh and armor.

The heavy set wretch slumped to the ground, falling over in a heap. The Chosen devoured the souls from his body, and lifted the two Humanity Sprites he had on his person. The Chosen took everything from him. He would leave this man nothing of which to resurrect at the bonfire.

The Chosen left the rest of the body to the crows as he headed to the bonfire to prepare. The Catacombs would not be an easy task.


	3. Chapter 3

Holding onto the Divine Weapon had been a good plan. A very good plan. It seemed Oscar was looking out for him, wherever he was. A hallowed guardian angel. Whatever the case, The Sword of Astora came in rather handy in these dark and murky caverns.

The Chosen’s normal weapon did nothing to stop the regenerating skeletons, and in an act of desperation he switched weapons to the Astora Straight Sword. The skeleton’s dropped into shatters with each swing, and–didn’t move. Divine Weapon it is! Moving heavily, The Chosen paid his respects to the Necromancer—with repeated frustrating slashes—and nearly wept in relief to find a bonfire at his side.

So early on the trip, and already finding trouble. The Chosen needed to step up his game, or he’d never find Rhea down here.

A renewed motivation that guided his strikes took The Chosen through the catacombs, swiftly and with more efficiency than he could remember having. He cut down skeletons and necromancers alike as he aligned bridges and traveled down into the deep. Picturing Rhea’s calm face hidden behind the light robes lit his way. 

Through pinwheel skeletons and dark rock, The Chosen came to his first big obstacle: A necromancer with three masked heads.

It was a twisted and contorted creature he spied on through a crack in the ruins. There was a room built into the rocks below him, and that monster was at the end of a shallow pool of water. Skeletons decorated the walls and the beasts’ table as he worked. The Chosen had to cross the room to get to the ladder that allowed him passage to the other side of the catacombs, but the monster lay in between. The Chosen had yet to find Rhea in this portion, so she must have made it through past the Necromancer. 

Somehow.

The Chosen tapped his finger on the stone roofing, and shifted. The three-headed abomination kept working, steady and occupied. The Chosen could do this. The masked man was distracted with his toys. It would be easy. Run, stab him in the back. Flee to the ladder while he writhed in pain. The Chosen inched forward, body tense. He could do this.

The Chosen dropped through the space between the broken roof and the room below, boots splashing heavily in the water as he landed. He sprinted forward, dashing as quickly as possible as the necromancer turned his many heads. So much for a surprise. 

The Necromancer shrieked, and called forth a heavy mist of magic that filled the room. A sorcerer then? Fine. The Chosen ignored the sudden spring of copies that surrounded him, eyes firm on the first he saw. That was the one he wanted.

The blade of the divine dug deep into the black, stretched clothing. Time sped up, and his mind went blank as The Chosen attacked, ignoring everything but this one beast.

Who disappeared.

And reappeared across the room in the sea of copies. The Chosen cursed, and dashed through the water. He had to do this quick! No time for—The Chosen rolled headfirst into the water as a spell flew overhead—letting the necromancer use magic, he reminded himself. The Chosen swung his sword through two fakes, before meeting the original for one last thrust of the straight sword in the Necromancer’s side.

The necromancer fell, disappearing in a burst of light as The Chosen absorbed his souls. A mask clattered to the ground, along with a strange red sprite that looked nothing like the bits of Humanity he’d seen. The mask was that of a child, and The Chosen stored it away to look at later. The sprite, however, that was something new. 

As The Chosen touched it, it was absorbed into himself. He felt it, his new gift and the sprite’s true form became clear:

It was a Rite.

Rhea had been looking for the Rite of Kindling. Was this it? The Chosen breathed in, feeling the renewed flow of souls and charged humanity. Had she and the others walked by it, not knowing the necromancer possessed it? There wasn’t much he could do though, as The Chosen had already accepted it in Rhea’s place. He hoped she wouldn’t be too cross.

Assuming he found her.

The Chosen chose not to dally any longer in the madman’s workshop, and tapped through the water toward the ladder on the upper wall. He climbed up, and met the darkness, the last of the water sloshing off his shoes and pants and onto the slick rocks.

The area beyond the necromancer’s place was the darkest pitch black he’d ever seen. Only the light from the torches below in the room lit the small area that he stood on. Glowing path stones could be spotted in the distance, scattered among the darkness like fairies–glowing and beckoning. But what land stood between here and there? The Chosen tested a foot forward, and met cavern rock. 

He also heard the cries of hollowed undead.

They say that good deeds are rewarded, and if The Chosen ever believed that, it was now. The Chosen pulled the Catalyst he’d gotten from Dusk of Oolacile from his belt, and touched the edge. Saving the woman from that Golden Golem had paid off it seemed. The Chosen brought forth the spell Cast Light, and the area around him was lit in a soft glow by the small light that hovered near his head. 

He would attract attention, but better to be a glowing beacon, than one who stumbled unable to see his way and died falling into a hole.

Returning the catalyst to it’s proper place, The Chosen drew his shield and sword, pressing forward into the darkness.

Time was short. He needed to find her.


End file.
